Rutting Elephant 
Alpha Male
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RE: Reviews for Michel Houellebecq's Soumission.
Great book. I extracted a few of my highlights (no spoilers) which might whet someone's appetite to read it:
Women
Quote:[college girl speaking:] "Let’s say you’re right about patriarchy, that it’s the only viable solution. Where does that leave me? I’m studying, I think of myself as an individual person, endowed with the same capacity for reflection and decision-making as a man. Do you really think I’m disposable?” The right answer was probably yes, but I kept my mouth shut.
My life would have been truly tedious and dreary if I hadn’t, every now and then, fucked Myriam.
Even my very comfortable pension wouldn’t be enough to see me through a serious illness. On the other hand, it did allow me to sign up for more escorts. I felt no real desire, only an obscure Kantian notion of “duty toward the self,” as I surfed my usual sites. In the end I settled on an ad posted by two girls: a twenty-two-year-old Moroccan named Rachida and a twenty-four-year-old Spaniard named Luisa promised “the enchantments of a wild and mischievous duo.”
Hidden all day in impenetrable black burkas, rich Saudi women transformed themselves by night into birds of paradise with their corsets, their see-through bras, their G-strings with multicolored lace and rhinestones. They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to maintain their social status, then collapsed in exhaustion once they got home, abandoning all hope of seduction in favor of clothes that were loose and shapeless.
she’d collapse, get into a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and that’s how she’d greet her lord and master, and some part of him must have known—had to have known—that he was fucked, and some part of her must have known that she was fucked, and that things wouldn’t get better over the years. The children would get bigger, the demands at work would increase, as if automatically, not to mention the sagging of the flesh.
To visualize a woman’s thighs and to mentally reconstruct her pussy where the thighs intersect—a process whose power of excitation is directly proportional to the length of bare leg—was so involuntary and mechanical with me, so genetic you might say, that it took me a while to notice what was missing: no more dresses or skirts. Women were wearing a new garment, a kind of long cotton smock, ending at mid-thigh, which eliminated any objective interest in the tight pants that some women might potentially wear; as for shorts, these were obviously out of the question. The contemplation of women’s asses, that small, dreamy consolation, had also become impossible.
Culture
Quote: When people got tired of that candidate, and the center-left in general, we’d witness the phenomenon of democratic change, and the voters would install a candidate of the center-right, also for one or two terms, depending on his personal appeal. Western nations took a strange pride in this system, though it amounted to little more than a power-sharing deal between two rival gangs, and they would even go to war to impose it on nations that failed to share their enthusiasm.
I’ve always loved election night. I’d go so far as to say it’s my favorite TV show, after the World Cup finals.
Microwave dinners were reliably bland, but their colorful, happy packaging represented real progress compared with the heavy tribulations of Huysmans’s heroes. There was no malice in them, and one’s sense of participating in a collective experience, disappointing but egalitarian, smoothed the way to a partial acceptance.
I’d had no trouble giving up all of my professional and intellectual responsibilities, it was actually a relief, and I had no desire whatsoever to be that businessman sitting on the other side of our Pro Première compartment, whose face grew more and more ashen the longer he talked on the phone, and who was obviously in some kind of deep shit.
Epigrams
Quote: the affectionate, slightly mocking look that women get when they witness a conversation between men—that oddity, not quite buggery, or duel, but something in between.
he was one of those people, and you don’t see them every day, who take an instinctive pleasure in the happiness of their fellow men—he was, in other words, a nice guy.
that phrase the balance of power always sounds impressive in conversation, as if you’d been reading Clausewitz and Sun Tzu.
For men, love is nothing more than gratitude for the gift of pleasure.
I started to wonder what I was doing there. This very basic question can occur to anyone, anywhere, at any moment in his life, but there’s no denying that the solitary traveler is especially vulnerable.
In the end, my dick was all I had.
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